an evening with julian cope

Royal Court, 13/11/00
It’s Monday at 7.50pm, Cope-speak’s a-flowing, and the Royal Court is slowly becoming home to around 600 bald heads and Mark Curry look-alikes (ginger, bi-focaled, ex Blue Peter).

The Drude himself appears, and for two and a half hours, invites us to join him in his LSD-soaked world of wit, with a smattering social-commentary, and a whole load of kick-ass songs.

The Mark Curry’s and I sit astounded as Copey leads us through hit after endless hit (Las Vegas Basement, Autogedden), pausing to dabble in the odd comical ditty (I’m Your Daddy – stroke of genius), and left us wondering how it’s possible to fill a stage with only one neurotic,
neolithic drude, and his spangly semi-accoustic. Oh, and the odd i-mac.
So, here he is; a six-foot post, post-punk God, five-inch platform biker-booted (sorry, flood-protection booted), with a large stage-paint blue eye, spreading his ‘vibe’ of education (ed-you-caish-arn!!!) to the ageing masses. What do you do if you don’t have a band? Simple - tape down a chord on the keyboard, strike a I-know-what-I’m-doing-pose and just pretend, of course.

Stop writing books Julian, we like you weird. Echo and the Bunnymen? Sorry mate, never ‘eard of ‘em. Kick out the Jams Mutha Fuckers!!!!!